


A Hero's Face

by Pastellorama



Category: Dragon's Dogma, general fantasy
Genre: Arisen, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, General, NPC - Freeform, OC, Original Character - Freeform, Pawn - Freeform, Pining, Short, main character likes npc, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastellorama/pseuds/Pastellorama
Summary: Short prose piece for the fun of describing what characters look like, with some added pining for flavor.
Kudos: 4





	A Hero's Face

**Author's Note:**

> I guess TECHNICALLY this may be Dragon's Dogma related if I do more. At this point... these are just two random characters. They could be any game really.

Between the two of them, no one would have ever guessed that it was Amaryllis who was the “destined child”, the “one who was prophesied”, the “savior of the world”, or whatever other terms the people had chosen to call their “hero”.

Why would they have?

She was a small and drab looking thing, never quite growing past the height of most of the school children and bearing skin that tanned so poorly that she always looked as if she'd just been rooting around in the muck beneath one of the large trees that grew outside the village. Her ears stuck out too much from her head and were so very round, her father affectionately calling them “scallops” in her youth for how they resembled the shells along the shore.

Her hair was unremarkable, dark and without any lustrous sheen to it—for all she should've wore it down to hide her ears, she insisted on pulling it back each day into a gnarled mess of a bun with a single, thick braid pinned to the side of her head. It was almost an attempt at femininity, and, seeing as it was the only one she made, it was less criticized than some of her _other_ unfortunate features.

She didn't have any of the markings of a hero upon her face—no battle scars, no war-paint, and no perfectly placed mark of beauty to give her a refined air. Instead, she boasted a score of freckles so dark it nearly resembled a small army of ants marching upon her face; across her cheeks and over a nose so sharp she was often teased it might be used to cut cheese. As if this were not enough, alongside that her brow was ever so comically arched that she always seemed to wear an expression of humorous skepticism.

Even her eyes did nothing to aid her when it came to looking the part of a hero. There were no twin jewels set beneath her thick brows, no orbs that sparkled with moonlight or swirled like vast pools of water. They were green, for certain, but they were that sort of green grass turned as it dried... somewhat yellow, dull, and dry looking. 

And, when stood next to her compatriot, a fellow known only as Bear, any chance that she _may_ have been the foretold hero at all was entirely dashed to pieces like a lost boat against the rocky shoreline of their home.

Bear was a hero. Or, rather, he was what a hero was _supposed_ to look like.

He stood heads above the others, shoulders squared back in a pose of such firm confidence that crowds parted for him like he was a king. And, _oh_ , did he ever look so much like a king—his jaw was carved so nobly and ridden with short grazed stubble, and his nose a fine straight line upon his face. It, unlike Amaryllis's nose, would _never_ be compared to cutlery. 

He had a mop of brown hair upon his head, a slight curl to his locks which, somehow, always seemed to catch the sunlight _just right_ and form a wreath about his stern brow. There was a scar on his temple, just above the left eye, though it was rarely seen from beneath the locks of hair he so frequently swept over it. Amaryllis occasionally glimpsed it when he would wipe the sweat from his brow after a long battle and glance her way. His eyes were a chilly blue color with thick lashes framing them, and the corners of his mouth neither turned up nor down until he had decided exactly just how he felt about a matter. Otherwise, his face was a quiet and vast sea of contemplation.

The only thing Amaryllis knew that could make his stupidly perfect face forsake its statuesque appearances was the ever so frequent mix-up of the two of them. It never failed, Amaryllis had realized, to get a faint smirk from the man each time _he_ was confused with _her_. 

But, if that was all that was needed to make him smile... Amaryllis would've gladly let anyone think he was the hero for the rest of her life. Just to see that smile again and again and again....

**Author's Note:**

> Should I do more with this??


End file.
